


we’ve got forever (slipping through our hands)

by arsonist



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: (honestly. practically see-through. its not even funny), (kinda hard to avoid what with the source material), (there’s a lot of parentheses in this), Anal Fingering, Clothed Sex, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Smut, Grief, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, M/M, Napping, Pillow Talk, Sharing a Bed, Simon is a sappy sleepy dork, also pretentious but you should know that about me by now, and a bottom B), happy valentines day!! heres some unrelated porn, i can’t believe i wrote over 6k words of overly self-indulgent fluff + porn ???!!??! unbelievable, i feel like this is kind of all over the place but that’s what i get for writing something longer, i guess this counts as, i’m so fucking transparent i could be made of glass i swear to god, seriously this is super gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 22:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3358283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arsonist/pseuds/arsonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks of Kieren’s bed then, his nice, soft bed. He fantasizes, almost hallucinates he’s lying in it and oh, what a blessing that would be. Being horizontal anywhere for a couple hours would be a great relief at this point, but being so in Kieren’s own bed seems to Simon’s muddled brain like the Holy Grail of sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we’ve got forever (slipping through our hands)

**Author's Note:**

> ok so this??? took a Lot longer to finish than it had any right to. it’s also the longest thing i’ve ever written. ever ever, probably (what a milestone, right). honestly, this was supposed to be much much shorter and focused entirely on the porn, but then i had to add context etc because i’m ~~a huge nerd~~ overly thorough and it just. spiraled. away from my control and right into the feelings zone. i'm so glad i can finally post this monster tbh i am _not_ used to doing things that require more than one sitting....... i’m still happy though, this kinda feels like an achievement haha,,
> 
> i want to thank the amazing [dimly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Parapines/pseuds/adimlytwistingplanet) who not only beta’d this but also helped me through the entire thing and listened to me whine constantly about how long it was getting. ilu dim!!!
> 
> i also want to send lots of hugs (if you’re comfortable with that of course) to everyone who’s super upset like me about the cancellation news :’((((( all we can do now is keep fighting to get this brilliant show renewed elsewhere and keep making more fanworks to keep ‘in the flesh’ alive (who knows, it just might come back from the grave, right…… *badum-psh*)
> 
> title is from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9VV8sgVSZNQ), which i listened to repeatedly while writing this (even though it has nothing to do with it other than the fact that it’s a p sexy-sounding song??) along with the ‘the social network’ soundtrack, for some reason.

It’s about mid afternoon when Simon finds himself standing in the driveway of the Walker household, blinking blearily in the blinding too-even clarity that filters through the clouded, blank sky; a bleak dome of empty light grey that makes everything seem like a magazine cut-out, sharp edged and artificial.

He hazily remembers making his way there, sleep deprivation setting him on autopilot and making it hard to focus on his surroundings, or anything for very long, but he guesses that it figures that Kieren is where his errant feet take him, almost sleepwalking, limbs weary and leaden like walking underwater. He feels heavy, exhaustion weighing in his chest like he’s swallowed stones, and he drums his fingers rhythmically against his thighs to keep himself from falling asleep on his feet.

It's been over a month now since Amy's passing, but being at the bungalow constantly surrounded by her memory and personal effects makes Simon feel increasingly brittle and hollow, the cold gaping chasm that's always been in his chest — that he was born with and spent his every moment attempting to fill — seemingly eroding slowly, getting deeper again even if at a glacial pace. It hasn't yet beckoned him to look over the edge, and he's not sure he'd answer to its call as easily now. It's still not a pleasant feeling though, and certainly makes any attempt at sleep difficult.

(When Simon had been alive, — and before he’d moved on to steadily worse, more unhealthy coping mechanisms — ‘sleeping it off’ had been a go-to method to Stop Feeling Things. Being unconscious was simple, and sometimes the pull of lethargy in his body and the prickling static in his brain made it an insurmountable chore to do much else. It worked for a while, somewhat: sometimes he’d wake up worse, and other times there would be no change, but most times he’d wake up feeling at least slightly better, less melancholy, almost functional.)

It already feels like an improvement to be out of the house, poor object permanence a strange and bittersweet blessing (he could never forget Amy; not even  _his_  brain could erase someone that shining. No, Amy is stamped on his grey atrophied heart in permanent ink, the kind that glows in the dark, probably. Simon smiles slightly at the thought.). Still, a good few hours of sleep would be more than welcome at this point. He sways as he staggers, sluggish, towards the front door of the house.

He thinks of Kieren’s bed then, his nice, soft bed. He fantasizes, almost hallucinates he’s lying in it and oh, what a blessing that would be. Being horizontal anywhere for a couple hours would be a great relief at this point, but being so in Kieren’s own bed seems to Simon’s muddled brain like the Holy Grail of sleep. Kieren’s room, Kieren’s pillow, Kieren’s sheets. There, surrounded by Kieren’s every-things — in the event of the absence of Kieren’s everything to surround him instead, which would be, of course, preferable — he can imagine a peaceful comfort he’s doubtful to find anywhere else. (Simon’s only been in Kieren’s bedroom once, after Amy’s funeral; Kieren had dragged him upstairs, wringing his hands nervously, as if what Simon was about to see were not the contents of a room where he slept but the contents of his own heart. Red wall, rumpled bed, multiple portraits of loved ones by Kieren’s hand. Makes for a decent metaphor in the end, Simon supposes.)

He gathers nerve to lift his hand and knock on the door, squinting heavy eyelids and wondering if Kieren would be offended if he showed up at his house only to pass out on his bed — seems sort of rude. He allows his eyes to close for a few moments (just for a few seconds, just—), blinks them open with difficulty. Simon knocks, and waits.

 

\----

 

By the time Kieren starts to walk back home from visiting Amy and Rick at the cemetery, the sky is already darkening and a light drizzle is ghosting over Roarton, the lazy kind that just sprinkles over everything but doesn't bother to commit to getting anything properly wet. He doesn’t think much of it, doesn’t consider quickening his pace; he can’t get sick, can’t even feel the cold humid air around him. Instead he walks slowly, lost in his own head, navigating the familiar streets almost purely by muscle memory.

This means he’s taken completely by surprise by the sudden downpour that begins just as he gets home. Thick drops like glass bullets hit the concrete and asphalt with alarming speed and resolve, quickly drowning everything, and Kieren ducks his head and skips as quickly as possible to the front door, buries his hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie in reflex. His boot-covered feet splash against the miniature lakes accumulating on the sidewalk, and his long gangly legs are already sprayed with puddle water by the time he reaches the protection of the closed-off porch, only barely managing to escape being completely drenched.

He runs a shaky hand through his damp hair and breathes a sigh, toeing off his grimy waterlogged boots. Best leave them out here lest his mum find a guilty trail of mud and footprints leading up to his room. He frowns at his equally soaked socks and takes them off as well, his white bare feet numb to the cold floor of the porch.

He finally enters the house and immediately pads his way to the staircase, distracted, still trapped in the labyrinth of his thoughts. Jem is coming out of her room just as he reaches the top of the stairs, hair done up in a quick ponytail and a single earbud in, and she smirks at him like she knows all the spoilers to his favorite show when he passes her on his way to his room. She doesn’t say anything though, just stomps her way downstairs like usual, likely in search of food, trailed by the tinny sounds of muffled angry music. Kieren frowns in mild confusion at his sister’s odd behavior, turning to follow her with his eyes.

He hasn’t been wearing his contacts or that poor imitation of living skin that cover-up mousse is (thick, matte beige,  _smothering_ ) for a while now — he’s stopped fake-eating too; he’d never been that big on pretending, after all — but Jem has been steadily getting better at seeing him barefaced, and this is clearly nothing at all like the reactions he used to get from her. He slowly steps backwards to his bedroom door wondering  _what the fuck gives_  and opens it one-handed, without looking. Finally he turns, shaking his head, but stops dead in the doorway. There’s Simon, fast asleep on his bed.

 _Huh_. That explains it, then. Kieren closes the door behind him and approaches quietly, peers at him in the darkened room, snorting softly. Simon is lying in an awkward intermediate position, half on his side half on his stomach with his knees bent, on top of the covers (lazy bastard), fully clothed (old faded heather black t-shirt, jeans, socks) except for the jumper in a thick pile on the floor, and the worn-out boots next to the bed. He’s turned away from the window, and the shadows of raindrops projected from outside draw living patterns on the lit half of his body. His torso rises and falls with unnecessary breathing, but he barely moves otherwise. Part of Kieren is loathe to wake him, endearing as he looks, but a bigger part ignores the first and turns on the lamp on the bedside table anyway.

‟Simon,” he places a gentle hand on Simon’s shoulder, equal parts amused and fond. ‟What are you doing here?”

Simon stirs and blinks awake, eyes unfocused and distant for a second, until they land on Kieren, and he reorients himself — as if Kieren was fixed, a point of reference; his compass and universal constant.

‟Hey,” he says, voice hoarse from sleep. He pushes his torso up, blinks a few times more, rubs the heel of his palm against his eye. ‟Sorry. Haven't been getting much sleep at the bungalow.” (Kieren’s eyes soften with sympathy at that, but also exasperation — of course it took passing out on Kieren’s bed for Simon to finally admit that something was wrong) ‟Your parents said y’were out, so I guess I… Took a nap on your bed.” He begins to move as if to get up, but Kieren reacts to stop him.

‟No no wait, stay there. Just a sec, don’t get up.”

Simon briefly furrows his brow but lies back down obediently, a little curious. Kieren quickly circles the bed while simultaneously taking off a few of his rained-on outer layers, until his slender and pale frame is covered only in a long-sleeved tee and his dark red jeans. He tugs at the covers and Simon takes the hint, readjusts to let him pull them down. Kieren gets in bed behind him and pulls the covers over them, wrapping himself snug against Simon’s broad solid back (Simon tenses a bit initially, but soon relaxes, and Kieren doesn’t ask), one arm under his around his middle and a knee wedged in between his legs, so they can both fit in the narrow bed.

‟There.”

Simon hums, a content, smile-shaped sound; his eyes are closed again. Outside the wind picks up, angled raindrops hitting the glass with more force. Simon’s sock-clad feet brush against Kieren’s bare ones comfortably. They can’t really feel any warmth, but it's still nice to huddle together under the blankets somehow, the sensation of safety and comfort and closeness not exclusive to those with a heartbeat. They stay like that for a moment, the sound of the rain seemingly isolating them from the chaos and hurt of the outside world, wrapping them in organic white noise, soothing and non-intrusive. The world slowly narrows to this, their own bubble of suspended, frozen solace. Simon is almost drifting off when Kieren speaks up again.

‟How did you convince my parents to let you wait up here, anyway?”

It takes a bit for Simon to respond; he has to resurface and pull away from the siren song of near-sleep to process the question. When he does respond it’s almost a mumble, tired lips and words not yet fully awake.

‟I’m not exactly sure, to be honest. I was so tired, I barely remember. I just said some words and they let me in,” he opens his eyes and lifts a hand, wiggling his fingers. ‟I’m starting to think I might have some sort of voodoo power.” His hand dives back under the covers to find Kieren’s. ‟Doesn’t work on you, though.”

‟Nope,” Kieren grins, warm laughter coloring his voice. ‟It really doesn’t. It’s okay though, makes  _this_  a lot less complicated, if you think about it.” Kieren says, peppering the back of Simon’s neck with brief kisses and nosing affectionately at the hairs that curl against his nape, just because he can. ‟Also, maybe consider the possibility they might be warming up to you?”

Simon simply hums again — considers it —, then twists around in Kieren’s arms until they’re facing each other. He looks at Kieren, soft and sleepy-eyed, and raises a hand to his face, tracing his features delicately with two fingers.

‟I missed you,” he murmurs absently in a quiet, private tone as he finally places his hand fully on Kieren’s face, thumb gently caressing his cheekbone. Kieren’s grinning still, amusement dancing in his eyes.

‟You’re so candid, when you’re like this. I think I like sleepy Simon.” Kieren slides his hand down to rest at the curve of Simon’s waist, and Simon just hums once more in response, pleased.

‟I missed you too, though,” Kieren says, shaking his head, glancing at Simon’s lips. ‟Christ, look at us. We’ve become total, ridiculous saps.”

He kisses Simon as if it were punctuation, and Simon inhales in mild surprise but quickly melts against him like honey, the hand on Kieren’s face moving to grab at his neck. Kieren doesn’t let the kiss last long though, instead pressing multiple small kisses against Simon’s lips, who tries to follow every time. He whines in the back of his throat and Kieren snickers, but relents, allowing Simon to kiss him for longer. The hand on Simon’s waist creeps under his shirt to find smooth skin. Simon makes a low, almost purring noise at this, and Kieren feels bolder. He parts his lips to press his tongue against Simon’s mouth, which opens gladly and readily for a second, until he pulls away, suddenly remembering himself and his surroundings.

‟Kieren… Your family…” he murmurs while Kieren kisses and nips at the sharp line of his jaw (and what a sweet reversal this is, Simon the one being mindful of who’s in the other room). Kieren pulls back to level Simon with an unimpressed, impatient look, but it loses a bit of its power due to heavy lids, blown starburst pupils.

‟Are they in here with us?”

Simon blinks, his eyes in the same state. ‟…No.”

Kieren rolls his eyes. ‟Well then, they won’t have to know, will they.” And with that he promptly returns to snogging Simon with intent, licks into his mouth, and Simon doesn’t resist this time. His fingers tangle in the short hairs on Kieren’s nape, and Kieren pulls him even closer, until they’re pressed almost flush under the covers. The hand under Simon’s shirt creeps to his stomach and trails slowly upwards to rest at his sternum, darkened fingernails catching on the coarse wiry dark hairs there, and Kieren shivers.

After a long while (one of the perks of being undead is you don’t really need to pause for air, after all), Simon breaks apart and mumbles a breathy ‘fuck’ against Kieren’s lips, glances down in between their bodies.

‟What?” Kieren breathes back, a little dazed, and Simon grinds his hips against Kieren’s, his erection an unmistakable solid shape under his jeans. Kieren instinctively responds in kind, his crotch in a similar condition, and a low groan escapes him.

‟I feel like a bloody teenager,” Simon says.

‟Is that a good or a bad thing?”

That makes Simon pause, thinking. ‟Good, actually. I can’t say I had the happiest teenage years.”

‟I’m sorry.”

Simon shakes his head, removes his hand from Kieren’s nape to brush his now dry hair away from his face. ‟It’s okay, love, don’t be. You make up for all of it.”

Kieren’s response to that is to kiss him, and rut against him slowly again and again, his hand back at Simon’s waist for better leverage. Simon’s moan is muffled against his lips, eyes closing in reflex, and his hips fall easily into the rhythm Kieren sets. Kieren drags his hand down Simon’s lean thigh, pulls at it to rest over his hip for better contact; he groans, Simon practically in his lap.

‟We should, ah— try to keep it down,” Simon mumbles against his mouth, but Kieren doesn’t falter.

‟I don’t care.”

Pulling slightly away, Simon can only manage a confused ‘wuh—’ before Kieren elaborates.

‟I don’t care if they hear us.”

‟Fuck. You’re sure?”

‟I’m  _sure_  I’ll be ten different kinds of mortified later, but right now I don’t really give much of a fuck.” He says, emphasizing his words with a pointed thrust that makes Simon’s grip on the back of his neck tighten and his eyes flutter shut.

‟Jesus, Kieren,” he breathes, and when he opens his eyes they’re unfocused and glazed over, cloudy like blown glass. There’s a pause between the two of them, until Simon tentatively suggests, ‟Trousers?”

Kieren nods eagerly, breathes out a ‘yeah.’

They disentangle themselves from each other to open their respective jeans, pushing them down to about mid-thigh, along with their underwear. It’s a little awkward to resume their previous position but they manage, Kieren in between Simon’s not quite spread thighs.

Kieren peeks under the covers as they adjust, takes note of Simon's cock: the dark head; the shape of it, curving up heavy against his belly; the thick, dark hairs at the base, and how they trail up towards his navel and disappear under where his shirt rides up. He takes note of how it fits in his grip, how it feels against his own as he tries to hold them both in one hand (hard, strange, fucking  _fantastic_ ).

The most they’d done until this point was: Simon on his knees, blowing him (eager, desperate, worshipful, hungry; like he’d swallow him whole if he could, like he got off on it as much as Kieren), hand moving swiftly down the front of his own trousers, pressing Kieren against the wall of the corridor of the bungalow only a few days after Amy’s funeral. It had been vaguely sad and frantic and they were both still raw from everything, and as he groaned and tightened his grip in Simon’s hair in search of something to anchor him, Kieren got the distinct impression Simon wanted to keep his mouth occupied so he wouldn’t have to talk.

But this, this feels so different. They haven’t even seen each other fully unclothed yet, but this already feels intimate, easy; normal, even, and so, so much lighter. They're still grieving, of course — but that's not what pulls them into each other here. They’ve yet to learn each other’s bodies, and this feels like a first attempt.

He slowly moves his hand up and down, and Simon makes a small breathless noise. Kieren kisses him, attempts to swallow that noise before it disappears completely.

His hand continues its movement, that slow up-and-down, and Simon's slightly larger hand joins his, covering them more successfully, but maintaining the same unhurried pace. Kieren's hand moves away then, to palm at Simon's bare ass, pull him even closer, and Simon gasps, almost inaudibly, his hand instinctively picking up some speed around them.

Kieren’s long fingers daringly inch to explore the cleft of Simon’s ass, and suddenly Simon freezes, gasps out a ‘Kieren’, body slightly tense and hand now still. Kieren pulls his hand away immediately, and mirrors his wide eyed expression back at him.

‟Shit, sorry. I should’ve asked… No?”

Simon eyes him meaningfully, worrying his lip before responding. His voice is gravelly and full.

‟…Not unless y’want me to get loud.”

 _Fuck_. Kieren swallows; that’s not the answer he’s expecting at all. Without breaking eye contact, he hesitantly moves his fingers back to their previous position, spreads Simon's asscheeks slightly, earning another soft gasp. He teases the tips against his rim, which clenches readily, beautifully in response as Simon restrains a whimper behind tightened lips, exhales carefully through his nose. He seems to remember his hand then, and tightens his grip around their cocks slightly, begins to move slowly again.

Kieren removes his hand briefly again to rub two fingers against the heads, urgently trying to get them slick with the little pre-come their bodies produce (it's not entirely clear, but slightly tinged with charcoal, the color visible only in concentration; it's also much slower to appear, their anatomy working in a different rhythm than that of the living. Kieren wonders, imagines if there would have been dark wet spots on his or Simon's soft cotton boxer briefs had they been alive, and shudders slightly).

Kieren’s hand is trembling a bit when he inserts the first slick finger, slowly. Simon makes a low humming sound, in encouragement and pleasure, and rests his forehead against Kieren’s. Kieren crooks his finger experimentally, and Simon’s hips buck in immediate reaction.

‟Kieren…” he whispers, eyelashes fluttering.

Kieren begins to thrust his finger gently in and out, and then a little faster when that earns him little happy grunts from Simon, in time with his movements. Simon presses a wet, unfocused kiss against his lips and Kieren takes it as encouragement — he adds the second finger, stretching slightly. Simon emits a sound in between a moan and a growl, drops his head to vaguely drag his open mouth against the point where Kieren’s neck meets his shoulder, trailing up his throat and towards his jaw; the ghost of a kiss. His hand falters only minutely around their cocks, and he rocks enthusiastically to meet Kieren’s thrusts.

Kieren already feels drunk on Simon’s reactions, and the thrill of possibly being overheard or even getting caught somehow amplifies everything, makes shivers run electric under his skin. Simon speeds up the jerking movements of his hand and Kieren instinctively matches his pace, fingers sliding easily, effortlessly now. Simon fails to muffle his moan against the soft skin of Kieren’s cheek. Kieren claims his lips in a messy, open-mouthed kiss.

‟Holy shit, you weren’t kidding,” he whispers breathlessly against Simon’s lips, barely pulling away. Simon only shakes his head, eyes barely open and mouth unwilling to close.

‟But you like it?” he finds himself asking, wanting some kind of vocal confirmation from Simon, despite all the obvious signs.  _Yes, I love your fingers up my ass_. A vague nod is all he gets though. Simon shuts his eyes and groans when Kieren crooks his fingers again, clenches briefly around them, so lovely.

Simon is rolling his hips with rhythmic abandon now, effectively trying to ride Kieren’s fingers, grunting with the effort and letting the occasional moan slip out when he gets the angle  _just right_. It’s such a heady rush; to see Simon, usually so composed, coming undone so easily, so openly in his hands. Simon throws himself body and soul into everything he does, and sex is seemingly no different. This intensity he brings with him is amazing to watch, and Kieren can’t seem to get enough of the sight. He feels it spread to him, contagious and white-hot.

Simon lets his head fall to the crook of Kieren’s neck again, resting his forehead against his clavicle, eyes closed.

‟Wish you could fuck me…” he mumbles absently (with the honesty and bluntness of a judgement clouded by arousal, an unfiltered, uncensored subconscious) and  _oh, wow_. Kieren inhales, stops his movements as his cock twitches in Simon’s grasp at the suggestion, curls and uncurls his toes. He feels so greedy; torn between wanting all of it, everything Simon could give, and not wanting to stop for anything. God, he’s so far gone.

Simon notices his pause and looks up at him, eyes searching, breathless. ‟We’d need lube.” He rubs his thumb teasingly over their purple-flushed tips and Kieren moans softly, breath hitching, rolls his hips forward in reflex into his fist. He swallows before answering, trembling in anticipation.

‟I can—” Kieren starts, and removes his fingers, already moving as if intending to get up and go search. Simon quickly grabs a fistful of his shirt with his free hand to stop him, pulls him back towards him gently.

‟Wait no, no, don’t get up!” he says, eyes pleading and voice urgent, strained and raw around the vowels. ‟Nevermind, it’s good like this, it’s good, c’mon, stay… Please.”

Simon’s needy tone and his hand around Kieren’s wrist shakily guiding his fingers back to their previous place in his ass (as if he ached for them now that they were gone) make Kieren bite his lip and groan, wondering why he’d ever considered stopping for even a second.

‟Okay, y-yeah…”

Simon kisses him again then, all eager lips and keen tongue — brings his hand back to its grip around their cocks, and Kieren slides both fingers in again. He begins to thrust them in earnest now, much faster and deeper than before, setting a merciless pace, and  _there it is_. Simon trembles against him and gasps, lets out a deep guttural groan that seems to echo from the pit of him, moves his hand in time.

‟Oh, Kieren, fuck, please—” he breathes, voice breaking, desperate and absolutely wrecked. Kieren doesn’t stop, and neither does he.

‟Like this?”

‟Yeah, just like that…” Simon manages around harsh pants, clothed chest rising and falling rapidly. He seems to be close, little twitches and shudders racking his body, muscles tensing and untensing in preparation like the coiling of a spring. Simon whispers his name like a prayer (‟Kieren, KierenKierenKieren—”), still clutching his shirt tightly with the hand not jerking them hard and fast, almost unconsciously at this point.

‟I’m right here…” Kieren reassures him, just as breathless, and Simon  _whines_.

It’s all too much, and Kieren begins to feel that familiar buzz of tension and pleasure quickly building low in his belly, then gradually spreading throughout his body like ink on wet paper. It’s Simon who comes first, though; bares his neck with a broken cry and a furrowing of his brow, his whole body shuddering and arching, muscles spasming around Kieren’s fingers, and all Kieren has to do is imagine his cock in their place and he’s gone too, stifling a groan and pulsing in Simon’s grasp.

(Something vague about supernovas and little deaths and second lives flashes through his mind, but he’s too busy feeling every functioning nerve ending in his body light up at once to bother to piece it together with any semblance of coherence.)

When Kieren reopens his eyes, vision clearing as he comes down from his high, Simon still looks wild, hair thoroughly disheveled from sleep and sex, catching his breath. Kieren carefully removes his fingers from Simon’s ass and he grunts in mild discomfort. Kieren flexes the painless stiffness of the awkward position out of his hand, his pale bony wrist making a satisfying pop.

‟Tissues?” Simon pants then, lifting the covers with his elbow to get his hand free, trying his best to avoid brushing his sticky fingers against the blankets.

Kieren blinks, but indicates his bedside table with a nod. ‟Behind you.”

Simon twists his torso to reach for the box of tissues next to the reading lamp, grabbing a few sheets for himself and Kieren. He cleans his fingers and palm diligently, while Kieren quickly wipes his, moving on to their now softening cocks, first Simon’s (his leg gives a small involuntary twitch as Kieren brushes lightly over his now hypersensitive skin) and then his own.

While Kieren is cleaning himself, Simon pulls up his underwear and jeans and begins to gather their used tissues in one hand. Kieren hands him the last one and he twists again to throw them in the bin. Kieren idly realizes the rain has stopped while they were otherwise occupied. He can tell by how quiet it suddenly is; only the sounds of stray secondhand drops in the fast approaching nighttime and fabric brushing skin reach his dead ears.

He quickly pulls his trousers up as well, and when Simon is just turning back Kieren surprises him by pulling him in for a firm, vehement kiss, a guiding hand splayed on his white jaw. Simon makes a tiny startled noise and rests his hand on Kieren’s shoulder, responds in equal measure.

It’s not really the first time Kieren has seen Simon orgasm — although the novelty hasn’t quite worn off yet — but it’s the first time he’s been directly responsible for it, and it makes him strangely giddy, proud even. All the glorious unrestrained noises Simon made, every reaction of his body, subtle or blatant; Kieren was the undeniable cause of it, and that knowledge has all of him so very awake, charged with electric exhilaration.

‟That was really— you’re…”

Simon pulls away slightly, pillows his head on his arm and looks downwards in momentary shyness, uncertainty; looks up at Kieren again. ‟I’ve been told I’m very responsive.”

 _Right_ , Kieren thinks, he’s been told. Because he’s had other — probably multiple — sexual partners in the past, because he has experience; the kind Kieren certainly doesn’t have. There’s a lot Kieren doesn’t know about Simon yet, but he can’t help but assume this, extrapolate from the confidence in his movements, from his age, from the little he’s told of his rocky past (also: from how skilled he’s proven to be at giving head, Kieren remembers). Kieren isn’t jealous, per se — well, maybe a small fraction of him is, if he’s completely honest, but it’s not a fraction he likes to pay particular attention to; he knows it’s irrational, does his best to ignore it. No, he’s closer to conflicted.

On the one hand, it’s kind of hot, holy  _shit_. Simon probably knows his own body really well, knows what he likes and what he doesn’t like. Kieren’s head spins when he lets himself wonder what kind of things Simon might have done in the past, and what they can explore together in the future. On the other, less hormone-fueled hand, it reminds Kieren of how young he is, how inexperienced; there’s this tiny persistent voice whispering to him, ‘ _he’s had better_ ’, and it makes him feel self-conscious, inadequate, clumsy. None of it is unfamiliar to him, however unwelcome — he knows these feelings well. They tremble and vibrate in his chest, the dark scratchy rumble of anxiety, a shapeless mess of nervous scribbles in charcoal or thick graphite.

Simon looks happy though, actually legitimately happy, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be (and maybe that’s because he’s just come rather spectacularly from being fingered and is still riding the afterglow, but Kieren thinks at this point it’s safe to assume there’s more to it than that), so Kieren buries his worries as well as he can for the time being. They can always talk about this later. He clears his throat and backtracks, takes a different route.

‟It’s, uh, pretty hot, actually.” Kieren admits, mentally cursing the fact he can feel his cheeks tingle with a phantom blush, and Simon raises his brows, blinks a bit, apparently pleased with the awkward praise. He actually seems flattered, although surprised, and it occurs to Kieren, not for the first time, that Simon has no idea of the effect he has on him, of how attracted Kieren is to him.

Simon is magnetic — it's in the shape of his jaw and in the wide slope of his shoulders; in his sharp hips and dark lashes and smoke-singed voice. (It's also in how one of his eyelids droops a bit lower than the other, in his nervous fingers and slightly slumped posture; in how he's decidedly handsome and charismatic, but also intelligent and caring and gentle and slightly odd, and it may not be love yet but Kieren thinks it just might be heading there.)

‟You looked like you were enjoying it, I liked seeing that,” Kieren continues, chewing on his lip. ‟I do kind of wish I’d got to fuck you, though.”

(The words ‘ _fuck you_ ’ feel strange in his mouth, new and exciting — he’d never had the occasion to use them in this context, without an accompanying defiant raised middle finger and a very different meaning; no one he could confidently or even safely say them to. Simon is a lot of firsts.)

‟You can.” Simon catches Kieren’s hand in his and knits his fingers into the spaces in between, interweaving them. He smiles at Kieren, affectionate and sincere, although Kieren thinks he can see something akin to thinly concealed hope in his eyes and voice. ‟Later, if you want. We’ve got time.” Simon says as he kisses Kieren’s knuckles tenderly.

And that’s true, isn’t it — they’ve got a lot of it; time. Kieren expects a sense of unease or dread to arrive in the shadow of the thought, but it doesn’t. Instead he feels an odd almost-peace, feels more resilient than he’s felt in a long while. He breathes in, even though he doesn’t need to; exhales. He feels his limbs relax into a content bonelessness, all the energy he’d just expended finally catching up to him.

It’s dark outside now, and the bedside lamp behind Simon bathes them in a soft amber glow. Even in this lighting that shies away from hidden corners Kieren’s trained eyes can see all the colors in Simon’s skin: the obvious mottled ash-greys but also the purples and blues and greens and yellows, the faintest bruise-like undertones; his lips and nostrils stained dark like his own, and the fine veins like faint shadows of spiderwebs under his skin, around his eyes, down his neck, lined with the clotted ink of their rotten blood. All the things Kieren still finds difficult to focus on for too long when looking in the mirror somehow seem to suit Simon perfectly, to the point Kieren finds it hard to picture him in healthy, living color (seeing him in cover-up made it even more difficult, paradoxically; the plain, even beige, the lifeless contacts — none of it fit him. Simon wasn’t plain, or even, or lifeless). He realizes he’s beginning to think about which colors he’d need to mix to paint Simon accurately when Simon interrupts his reverie, casually pulls him out of artist-mode.

‟Should we change the sheets or…? Your mum might get cross if we stain these with our undead gunk.”

Kieren lets out a startled huff of laughter at the bluntness of the statement but it turns into a groan halfway. ‟Ugh, no. That would involve getting up and, worst of all, getting out of this room, which I’m never doing again, ever.”

It’s Simon’s turn to laugh, then; a light, happy sound. He smiles crookedly, eyebrows raised in amusement. ‟What happened, Mr. I-don’t-care-if-they-hear-us? You were so shameless back there.”

‟Shut up,” Kieren retorts as he hits Simon’s shoulder lightly, lips twisted in what is absolutely not a pout. ‟I wasn’t shameless, I was… Horny. And now I’m embarrassed, and would very much like to avoid facing my parents — or sister! —  _right_  after having loud zombie sex.”

Simon, who would easily have taken offense at his use of the z-word only a few months before, doesn’t even flinch now (if anyone has any right to use it it’s them, amongst themselves; reclaim it and all that. The r-slur is a different story, Kieren knows). Instead he simply blinks once, smile unfaltering.

‟So should we make our escape through the window then?” he says.

‟Ha ha, yes, of course, let’s do that. Make a rope out of sheets tied at the ends while we’re at it.” Kieren’s tone is dry, sarcastic, but never abrasive; he smiles through it as well.

‟Could work. Works in the movies.”

The eye roll is an automatic response at this point. ‟Idiot.” (Simon simply kisses the corner of his mouth smirking, the smug asshole) ‟No, let’s stay here. Take a nap, maybe,” Kieren says with finality, leaving little room for argument. He pulls the covers tighter over his shoulder and closes his eyes, long eyelashes brushing against his cheekbones, featherlight.

Simon hums his assent. ‟Okay,” he kisses Kieren again, gentle and slow, and his voice is warm and ripe with feeling when he speaks again. ‟You’re beautiful.”

Kieren snorts and readjusts against the pillow, keeping his eyes closed. ‟Yeah, you’re always saying that.”

‟And I mean it every time.” Kieren opens his eyes at this, and the way Simon is looking at him makes his insides twist in a funny way — it’s the same look he gets from time to time, filled with such reverence and fierce wonder, like he’s seeing all at once the entire universe, the whole of Everything; only boy-shaped. ‟You don’t have to agree with me, though it is a crime that you don’t see it.”

Kieren doesn’t think he’ll ever learn how to deal with these habits of Simon’s; the intense, lingering looks, the high praise and compliments. He sometimes wants to tell him to stop saying these things ( _beautiful, incredible, amazing_ ) altogether, because it often makes Kieren feel like he’s being lied to, but the sheer sincerity in Simon’s eyes when he says them always stops him short. It’s not easy to get used to, but he guesses that’s just the way Simon loves.

(He thinks of Amy then, with all of her ‘ _you’re morgeous, Kieren Walker_ ’s. He’d never been able to ask her to stop either.)

A bit flustered and unable to argue, Kieren looks away, full moon eyes focusing anywhere but Simon’s face. The corner of his lip quirks up, though, despite himself. Just because he can’t really believe it doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate his boyfriend’s valiant efforts. It's sweet, in a way. ‟Yeah, whatever, you soppy nerd. Now shut up and come here, I thought we were going to sleep.”

Simon huffs a laugh but relents, twisting around briefly to switch the lamp off and then cuddling closer to him. ‟Fine.”

Kieren is only half surprised when Simon tucks his head comfortably under his chin, nuzzling into his chest. He blinks down at him, bites back a smile. His hand finds its place in Simon’s hair, and Simon hums with his eyes already closed, drapes an arm around Kieren’s middle, runs his hand lightly up his back until it rests in the space in between his shoulder blades, thumb brushing gently in an absent caress. Kieren tangles their legs together, ankles against calves. He exhales, closing his eyes too.

 

\----

 

Sue pauses before the door to Kieren’s room and knocks lightly, as she does most nights, to call him down for dinner. She knows Simon still hasn’t left, and it seems natural to invite him as well. Admittedly, she wasn’t quite sure what to make of him at first — this stranger, this man who arrived with radical ties and unclear intentions — but her initial wariness of him has grown thinner over time. He makes her boy happy, saved his life, even, and that is something she can’t deny. She knocks on the door again, a little harder, thinking perhaps she’d knocked too lightly the first time.

‟Kier?”

She waits for a response, but nothing comes. A sharp spark of worry in her spine drives her to open the door slightly, but all she finds as she squints in the dark are Kieren and Simon snuggled up to each other on the bed, fast asleep, and the endearing sight quickly extinguishes her fears with a warm wave of affection.

The intrusive light from the hallway that creeps around her silhouette into the darkness of the room aligns with Kieren’s face and he stirs, lifting his head slowly, bleary eyed, still halfway into dreamland. His hair is a tangled mess of copper, sticking up where it was pressed against the pillow.

‟Mum…? What is it?” he rasps, blinking in the half light.

Sue smiles at him, fond. There’s no harm in letting them be for a little longer; it’s not like they can actually eat anyway — a fact she’s slowly but surely starting to accept.

‟It’s nothing, love. Go back to sleep.”

He mumbles a distracted ‘okay’ at that and promptly nestles back against Simon’s sleeping form, who only grumbles and pulls him closer. Feeling more and more like an intruder by the second (in the way a parent always feels, when they witness their adult child involved in a part of their life that doesn’t include them) and eager to give them back their privacy, Sue closes the door as quietly as possible, and leaves them to it.

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve seen people have them reclaim ‘r*tter’ which is also cool but i can’t even type out the entire word without feeling awful bc i’m a ridic sensitive baby :’(


End file.
